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Assimilation
To say it was simply cold and windy in the rugged Trollweis Mountains would be a drastic understatement. A bitter frost accompanied a gale from the north; snow continued to pile up, making the mountains look even larger than they were. The noise the wind made was rather loud as it swept over stone and bark. Through this storm, a figure struggled up the mountainside. It took him several tries to ascend the side before he slid down an embankment, and then something odd happened. He found himself in a clearing that was devoid of the raging storm. Above him, the stars shone brightly and the planets had produced an eerie glow. The figure looked up at them for a moment, then made his way to the center of the clearing, shaking off some of the snow that had stuck to his cloak. As he approached a large stone built in the middle of the clearing, the mahjarrat called Wahisietel focused on two cloaked figures murmuring to each other in low voices. As he got closer, the other two mahjarrat stopped to regard him. One carried a large, gilded staff with what looked like a sparkling emerald sitting between two wings. “Wahisietel,” the one carrying the staff of Armadyl said, nodding his head in the Zarosian’s direction. Wahisietel nodded to the other mahjarrat, eying the god staff nervously. “I see you’ve been busy, Lucien. What poor soul stole that for you?” The other mahjarrat’s eyes lit up, almost as if he were amused. Of course, due to his skeletal frame, it was hard to tell if it was humor or Lucien was angry. Before he could say anything, however, the second mahjarrat spoke for him. “The same one he has sent looking for a fairy tale,” Zemourgal interjected with a flat tone to his voice, crossing his arms. Lucien turned back around, snarling at his cousin. Zemourgal chuckled. “Cousin, you waste your time and resources looking for this stone. They could be better suited to dealing with other matters, much like--” Lucien cut him off as he waved the god staff in Zemourgal’s face. “Must I remind you that our own race is considered a myth by the folk of this pitiful realm? Even our ritual is considered a fable among those educated enough. To them, we do not exist but in the stories told around campfires. And oh, how they are wrong.” Lucien lowered the staff, looking southward. “The ‘fairy tale’ exists, and I will find it – with or without your help. And when I do, be forewarned – when you call upon my help, cousin, you shall not receive it.” Lucien’s cousin stared at the other mahjarrat for a moment, then turned to Wahisietel. Zemourgal looked as if he were about to say something, then glanced over Wahisietel’s shoulder. The slight widening of his eyes betrayed his surprise, so Wahisietel looked over his shoulder to find another figure, clothed in a dark garment that resembled the night, standing there with arms folded. “And so the fighting begins?” Sliske murmured, eying all three of them in turn. “Ah, so the Serpent finally decides to show his face,” Zemourgal murmured. “I almost expected you not to come; after all, I know how tedious looking after wights can be.” Wahisietel thought he heard a little bit of laughter coming from Sliske, but couldn’t tell; in any case, the Serpent nodded in reply. “Indeed, Zemourgal, but I must say – they are easier to manage than hordes of zombies. Stronger, too.” Zemourgal took a step towards Sliske, but was stopped by the arrival of two more of their kind. One, a slender female that carried herself like she was of royalty, casually strolled through the snow. Behind her, almost like a slave, walked Enakhra’s rival, Akthanakos. Despite his skeletal appearance (and subsequent lack of emotion), Wahisietel almost felt as if the other Zarosian was downcast. Rightfully so; he would most likely be sacrificed this time, due to his current condition. “A necessary evil,” Sliske said, as if responding to Wahisietel’s thoughts. Not for the first time did Wahisietel wonder if his ‘friend’ could read minds. After a few moments, the new arrivals finally took their places near the ritual stone. Enakhra regarded all of them for a moment, then shook her head as if she found something repulsing. She looked with interest at the god staff Lucien carried, and seemed not to notice Zemourgal trying to make an attempt to say something. Akthanakos, on the other hand, looked up at his two allies, almost pleading for help. Wahisietel said nothing, averting his gaze. Sliske, on the other hand, seemed to find enjoyment in Akthanakos’s predicament. “It’s not all bad, you see – at least you die knowing you helped us live!” At this, Akthanakos looked back down, his face a mixture of rage and contempt for the other mahjarrat. A few more minutes passed, each of them in silence. And then, to the northwest they all heard the clanking of armor as it drew nearer to the ritual site. A large, hulking figure raised a hand, halting the procession; then, Khazard trudged towards the ritual stone, one hand on the hilt to his sword as if he were ready to draw it in an instant. He stopped a few yards from the rest of his kind, glancing around suspiciously. “Do we not fight this time around?” he asked. His question was relevant, actually; usually right before the ritual, they fought upon this plane as a test of power. It seemed like this was one of those rare occurrences when they all felt the need to get this over with as quickly as possible. Lucien shook his head, and beckoned for the younger mahjarrat to join them. “Is this all of us?” Lucien asked, looking at each of them. “Who is missing?” “Well, there’s Bilrach, but I think we know what happened to him,” Zemourgal said, “And then there’s Koschei. I would like to think he would be here, but I can’t feel his presence; perhaps he has passed on. And then there’s Jhallan, who will be missing a second ritual – which would probably make him a likely candidate for the next, if he is still around by then. Oh, and Hazeel, though I doubt he’ll make it unless a passing adventurer decides to resurrect him. And finally, there’s Azzanadra.” “Let the heathen rot in his prison for another five hundred years,” Enakhra replied, glaring down at Akthanakos. Lucien thought for a moment. “We will have to deal with him, one way or another. By the next ritual, I should have already acquired the power I need to deal with him. Waste no worry on that rat.” He looked at them, as if expecting one to challenge him. When no one did, he nodded to himself. “Good. Now, why don’t we begin--” “If I may?” Sliske asked, taking a step forward. Lucien looked at him in surprise, and then seemed about to yell at the other for interrupting him. Sliske stared him down before he then continued talking. “Something has… come to my attention. Are any of you familiar with this group called the Guild of Talisman?” Wahisietel stirred upon hearing the name of the group. He had indeed heard of them; they had been growing in popularity for the past month. “What of them, Sliske?” he asked. “Were any of you aware that they are headed by two men from the First Age?” It took a moment for the implication to register. “Impossible,” Khazard yelled, followed by a bout of laughter. “You’re mad!” Enakhra replied, shaking her head. “Surely we would have heard of them if they were from the First Age, Sliske?” Zemourgal asked, uncrossing his arms. He sounded amused, but there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice. Wahisietel could also see it in his eyes; Zemourgal knew that if what Sliske said was true, it would mean a bit of trouble for their tribe. Sliske shrugged. “They’re a secretive… couple. They’ve found ways of staying in the shadows for a very long time – ways that even I didn’t know about.” The Serpent nodded in satisfaction, almost as if he were pleased with someone knowing more than him. “Oh, and they plan on destroying everything.” The silence that came after this was broken when Lucien replied with, “And how did you find out about this?” to which Sliske replied by tapping his left temple, the light in his eyes sparkling as if in amusement. “We’ll need to deal with them when the time comes, then,” Wahisietel said, turning his eyes to the sky. “For now, though… I think it’s time.” The other mahjarrat stirred; some looked as if they wanted to say more on Sliske’s topic, but it was time for the Ritual. Enakhra eagerly pushed Akthanakos in front of the ritual marker, and then looked around at the others to see if they would challenge her claim. None said a word. Enakhra, a triumphant gleam in her eye, looked down at Akthanakos and was prepared to strike him down when a staff blocked her way. She was confused for a moment, then looked up at Lucien. “What--” Enakhra began before she was pushed to the side, landing face-first in the snow. Lucien stared down at her, and Wahisietel was sure that if flesh had been on that face it would have been twisted in a scowl. “Get back to your place, girl,” Lucien growled. Enakhra shuddered before she stood next to Khazard, and Wahisietel felt that for the first time since she had arrived, she had felt an emotion other than contempt – fear. Lucien turned to look down at Akthanakos, making it so that the staff was visible to the other mahjarrat. “Akthanakos,” Lucien said, “You have been chosen to face the void during our 18th ritual. May Zamorak find mercy for you in the next life.” Lucien raised the staff of Armadyl, almost like he was about to cleave Akthanakos in half. As for the other mahjarrat, he seemed resigned to his fate, though he couldn’t suppress a little shudder. Lucien brought the staff down, and then the unexpected happened. Instead of the god staff connecting with Akthanakos, a brilliant flash of light swallowed it up and disappeared in an instant. Lucien was almost thrown off balance, and his surprise was the greatest among the mahjarrat. He turned around, yelling wild accusations at the rest of them. While the other mahjarrat had begun to hurl insults at each other, each blaming the other for what had just happened, Sliske stared at a cloaked man leaning against the ritual marker. The man’s face was hidden in the shadow of his dark cowl, and Sliske might not have noticed him because of how his dark attire faded into the shadows. What stood out to the Serpent, though, was what was in the man’s hands. The god staff of Armadyl. Fight Arena The mahjarrat quieted down after they saw what Sliske had been staring at. Lucien’s teeth grated and looked as if about to cast a killing spell right then and there. The others looked on in wonder at the man, some of them sharing the thought ''Who is this man, and does he have a death wish? ''Khazard, on the other hand, thought differently. He barked a laugh, surprising the rest of his kind. “Well, now – it seems Lucien has been outwitted by a mere human! Ahaha!” Khazard continued to laugh, even as the others stared at him as if they were saying “Shut up, you fool.” The stranger seemed to share Khazard’s humor, for a smile crept across his lips. His violet eyes regarded each of the mahjarrat, and when Khazard felt the eyes look into his own, he felt as if he knew this man. That was impossible, though; Khazard only associated with humans when he was striking fear into their hearts on the battlefield. ''Perhaps he is a deserter, ''he thought. Upon thinking this, Khazard began to casually stroll towards the stranger, taking out his sword. “Do not worry, Lucien – I’ll get your staff back for you.” The stranger straightened, the smile on his lips growing bigger as the mahjarrat came closer. Khazard’s spirit began to drop just a little; usually men quaked in their boots when they gazed upon him, yet this stranger seemed at ease with a whole party of mahjarrat. Khazard was now only steps away from the man and stopped, holding out a gloved hand. “Hand it over, and I’ll make it quick and painless, mortal!” he boasted. The man did not move. Lucien crossed his arms, eyes gleaming with hatred. “Fool,” he murmured, his jaw twitching in anticipation. Khazard had never been the brightest of their tribe; if he was about to be thrown around by a human, that was his own fault. Khazard, surprised by the man’s boldness, laughed again. “Fine, then!” Khazard raised the sword over his head, making a move as if to cleave the young man in two. As the blade came down, all it met was air; the stranger had simply moved out of the way. Khazard stared at the man, then swung the sword at him again. Again, the man avoided it by simply turning his shoulder. Khazard’s humor was now gone. A red glow began to envelop his blade as he roared. “Fine!” he yelled, pointing the point of the sword at the human. A blast of violent energy propelled itself towards the man’s feet, and when it connected a bunch of snow, stone, and dirt was thrown into the air. If the stranger had survived that, surely he would be in great pain! Khazard laughed in triumph as the other mahjarrat shook their heads. “Fool,” Lucien said again, this time louder. “Wait until the area settles before you think you’ve won!” Khazard paid no attention to Lucien, which ultimately proved to be one of the major mistakes made during this ‘fight’. Khazard continued to laugh, ignoring the dust cloud as it started to dissipate. The other mahjarrat stood in wonder as they observed that the stranger was untouched by Khazard’s attack. If anything, the man looked even happier. “My turn?” he inquired, stopping Khazard’s laughing. The staff of Armadyl began to glow, and suddenly the man was in front of the idiot mahjarrat. Khazard tried to take a step back, but it was too late. The staff of Armadyl sent an air surge into his chest, knocking him flat on his back several yards away. “And that,” Sliske raised a skeletal finger, as if emphasizing his point, “is why you never underestimate your opponent.” Khazard scrambled up and gripped his blade with both hands. Obviously, the stranger was a bit of a challenge, but he was just a human. He couldn’t be ''that ''strong, even with a godstaff. Khazard, not much of a thinker, ran at the stranger again, swinging his sword in a diagonal slash at the stranger’s chest. In a precise maneuver, the staff had blocked the sword. The young man seemed troubled by something. “Now, hang on,” he said, appearing not to notice the strain Khazard was putting on the sword, “I thought it was ''my ''turn.” Khazard’s eyeholes widened in surprise as he started to fall forwards. The stranger had moved the staff back, and with the amount of strength that Khazard had put in to trying to knock his adversary back, there was little to no way of stopping his forward momentum. That is, until the staff connected with his head, sending him sprawling backwards. The sword dropped clumsily to his side. The stranger walked over and placed a boot on Khazard’s chestplate, pointing the end of the staff at the mahjarrat’s face. The gem began to glow, and the other mahjarrat knew what this human’s intent was… And then the man looked up suddenly, as if hearing something far away. He took his boot off of the chestplate, then turned around, swinging the staff at something hurling through the air. A yelp was heard, and a silver mist rose off of some sort of hound that must have been Khazard’s pet. Khazard, still groggy from being hit on the head, began to crawl away from the man. He attempted to teleport, but something prevented him from leaving. He cursed, then remembered he still had something far greater than just a single man. “Those who serve me, to arms!” he bellowed, and his troops obeyed their master. They hurried towards him, some looking surprised to see him down. He would have to kill some of them later for doubting him. Khazard turned, pointing at the stranger. “Kill,” he commanded. A hail of arrows and magical spells surged forward, all towards this one man who seemed unperturbed by the onslaught. All he did was raise his hand and then all of the magical spells fired fell into themselves, and all arrows disintegrated upon reaching within a few feet of him. Khazard now looked in awe at this man. This was no ordinary human, but… what? Then, the man disappeared again. Khazard searched in vain for his enemy, and a thought crossed his mind. ''If this were in my arena, he would have nowhere to hide-- ''Khazard heard the blast before he felt it. He felt himself falling forward for the second time that night, his back scorched from a fire surge thrown by the man. Khazard felt himself immensely weakened and tried to turn around in a desperate attempt to defend himself while he still could. What he received was another smack to the left side of his face from the staff, sending him back to the ground. When Khazard could see again, he noted in dismay that the army he had summoned had been killed in just a split second by whatever demon had arrived at the ritual. The stranger raised the staff to Khazard’s neck, acting as if to impale it. “Say hello to your mother,” the stranger whispered to him, and suddenly there was only darkness…